


Slow-Rot City

by OfInfiniteSpace



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2368316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfInfiniteSpace/pseuds/OfInfiniteSpace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lawyer Fallon is not fond of Nucky Thompson or his lousy city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow-Rot City

There was an awful lot that Bill Fallon disliked about Nucky Thompson.

It didn’t matter that the man was guilty. Every man and woman could be called guilty one way or another. What got to Fallon was the man’s absurd sense of self-importance – this was New Jersey, for God’s sake – and his boorishness, his floundering propensity for casting blame. Which might have been acceptable if the man weren’t utterly, woefully dull.

Thompson possessed enough wit to be dangerous, but he wasn’t half so clever as he believed. He didn’t know how to listen. He didn’t know how to take clues from conversation or the world around him. And he was indiscreet, too easy to read and too easy to sail over. Fallon could run rings around the man without trying. Dear lord, the man almost made Fallon miss Rothstein. A.R. was a cold fish, but his mind was razored and at least he could laugh. The most Fallon could provoke from Thompson was muddled indignation.

If Thompson wasn’t paying so well and if Fallon hadn’t owed Rothstein a favor (never mind about that), he would have bailed on the case after the first week. He certainly wouldn’t have tolerated the stay in Atlantic City. Consultations left him glassy-eyed and yearning for another drink. And Thompson insisted on lording over Fallon’s time, offering entertainment as if Fallon couldn’t find his own. Fallon hated hovering. Fallon hated feeling as if he didn’t have control over his own actions. So he’d turned down every offer and spent far too much time sequestered in his hotel room. Well. He’d rather be bored out of his skull than accept Thompson’s good time.

On the few occasions he did venture out, Fallon couldn’t shake the feeling that Thompson was watching, his face a picture of satisfaction. But what did Thompson think he had to be so smug about? Atlantic City had nothing, absolutely nothing on New York life. Fallon thought he might like to slug Thompson in the face. Instead, he did his best to tolerate the man and cover his own boredom with a smirk.

Even the night the case was dismissed, when Thompson was riding high on success and booze, laughing and clapping Fallon on the arm, Fallon couldn’t bring himself to smile naturally. Nothing had changed. Just behind Thompson’s jesting, Fallon saw rotten ice waiting to crack and bleed slow discontent.

As he watched the man gladhand passersby, as he suffered another tale of half-humorous exploits, it occurred to Fallon that Nucky Thompson was built to last. It was always the dry ones who survived. Always the ones who lacked imagination that stifled themselves into inexorability. It was, Fallon thought, one of nature’s finest jokes that those who forgot how to live lasted longest.

Fallon couldn’t understand it. He would rather burn through life than fail to live for a single moment. Rather take his end bow early than watch the world dry out.

He didn’t belong in the city and he didn’t belong beside this lukewarm spirit. So Fallon called for another drink and told himself he was almost free of this place. He couldn’t wait to get back to living.


End file.
